


A Quiet Evening at Home

by mithrel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithrel/pseuds/mithrel
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale make pasta and sit by the fire.





	A Quiet Evening at Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carrioncrowned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrioncrowned/gifts).

> This is my work for carrioncrowned at the Good Omens Fan Exchange. Their prompt was "Soft domestic fluff at the cottage, maybe including some good old fashioned wing grooming." I hope you like it!

“Angel,” Crowley calls, nudging open the door to the cottage with his hip, arms full of grocery sacks, “Are you here?”

No answer. Crowley grumbles, manhandling the sacks into the kitchen and dumping them on the table. He puts away the cold things, then goes in search of the absent Aziraphale.

He finds him in the yard, on his knees in the vegetable garden, covered with dirt, half-full baskets of tomatoes, onions, and peppers next to him.

Aziraphale hasn’t noticed him, and Crowley takes a moment to gaze at him. It’s rare to see him in anything other than his customary suit, but now he’s dressed in a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, and khakis. For Aziraphale, it’s practically casual.

Aziraphale looks up from his work then, and almost falls on the ground, clutching his chest. “Goodness gracious! How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” Crowley says, raising an amused eyebrow. “What’s all this?”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale says, standing up and dusting off his knees. “I thought we might have pasta for dinner.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow again, mind flashing to the linguine, olives, and mushrooms in the bags on the table. But maybe it’s not too surprising. They’ve known each other for six thousand years, after all; they should be used to anticipating one another’s thoughts by now.

Aziraphale stoops to pick up the tomatoes, and Crowley grabs the other basket, and they head indoors.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, seeing the sacks on the table. “You’ve been shopping.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley says, setting the basket on the counter for lack of any other space. The tomatoes go beside them, then Aziraphale turns to the sacks to begin unpacking.

He looks briefly surprised as he pulls out the linguine, then smiles softly at Crowley. “Great minds.”

Crowley scoffs at him.

They put away everything not needed for dinner, then Aziraphale washes his hands and they start making the sauce.

Aziraphale takes the clean red peppers out of the sink and gets out a frying pan, beginning to roast them. Crowley does the same with the onions and begins chopping them, grateful he doesn’t have the sort of trouble with them that humans do.

After the vegetables are chopped, Crowley gets out another pan and starts sautéing them. He sprinkles in garlic and other spices, as Aziraphale drizzles the peppers with olive oil and puts them in the oven.

Aziraphale chops the mushrooms, then begins on the tomatoes as Crowley stirs the sauce, then adds the mushrooms and other ingredients to the simmering pan. Once the tomatoes are chopped, Aziraphale stirs them in, along with the olives and wine.

The oven timer dings, and Aziraphale takes out the red peppers and puts them to cool.

The red peppers, peeled and de-seeded, go into the sauce next.

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” Aziraphale says, looking at his clothes ruefully. He still has a smudge of dirt on his nose. It’s oddly endearing. “Can you watch the sauce?”

“Of course, angel.”

***

The linguine, sprinkled with cheese, is delicious. Crowley has two helpings.

Aziraphale leans back contentedly in his chair, sipping his wine. “It was a good idea to come here.”

Crowley agrees absently. After the stress of averting the Apocalypse, they’d felt they’d needed a holiday. This quaint little cottage was just the thing. The neighbouring town is far enough away to give them privacy, not so far that it’s an ordeal to get provisions.

They moved from the table to the sofa in the living room, leaving the clearing up for tomorrow. That was unusual, Crowley thought. Aziraphale must have something planned.

So he’s bemused, but not entirely surprised, when Aziraphale stretches his hands above his head and his wings come out, stretching too.

Crowley’s hand reaches out, of its own volition, until he remembers himself and snatches it back.

He settles for examining the wings minutely.

They look good, all things considered. Not surprising, perhaps, given how fastidious Aziraphale is about his person. However, near where the feathers come out of his back, where it would be hardest to reach, the feathers are slightly tangled, crooked, barbs standing out in every direction.

Aziraphale shifts so that he’s sitting in front of him. “Dearest, I wonder, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“What?” Crowley blurts, his eyes snapping to Aziraphale’s, where he’s looking over his shoulder.

“Well, one does one’s best, of course, but–”

“Jussst what are you insinuating?” Crowley demands, cursing the hissing that comes out whenever he’s under stress.

Aziraphale blinks at him, as if it should be obvious. “I was wondering if you might give me a hand grooming my wings.”

Grooming his wings. _Grooming_ his _wings._ They don’t _do_ this. They don’t even _talk_ about their wings, since the subjects of such things as Questions and Falls are inextricably intertwined with them. Asking Crowley to _touch_ them, let alone _fix_ them…

Crowley blinks, his eyes damp. He knows Aziraphale trusts him. He just didn’t realize how much.

Apparently he’s silent for too long, because Aziraphale prods him. “…Dearest? Have I overstepped?”

“Nono,” Crowley says, yanking his mind back from wherever it’s wandered off to. “Yes, I’ll, of course I…come here,” he concludes, somewhat lamely.

Aziraphale shifts closer to him, his wings dipping down, totally relaxed, and Crowley marvels again.

He ghosts his hands over Aziraphale’s back, right at the spot where it’s never quite possible to scratch. Aziraphale sighs and leans toward him.

He starts straightening the feathers, carefully untangling them, stopping and running his hands over Aziraphale’s back soothingly whenever he hisses in discomfort.

It takes him about ten minutes to fix the few feathers that aren’t impeccably groomed. He sits there for a moment, uncertain, but Aziraphale doesn’t move away, so he moves to the other feathers, the ones that lie straight, running his hands over them.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, and Crowley flinches guiltily.

But Aziraphale only leans over his shoulder again, a cloth in his hand. “Here.”

Crowley looks at it, bemused. It’s a white rag, coated with oil. “Oh, of course.”

Crowley wipes the oily rag carefully over the wings, then works it into the feathers with his fingers, carefully, until they gleam.

Crowley leans to the right, reaching for the primary feathers, stretching. Aziraphale glances over his shoulder and moves his wing into easier reach.

There’s something soothing about this, the firelight flickering over white feathers, the smoothness of the oil, the quiet rituality of it. Aziraphale’s breathing slowly, his eyes half-closed.

Crowley moves to the other wing, repeating the process, as the coals burn down and Aziraphale breathes in front of him.

When he’s done, Aziraphale doesn’t move. Crowley sets aside the rag and leans in to kiss the spot right where the feathers spread out.

Aziraphale starts. “Oh!” Crowley pulls away, his face flushing, but Aziraphale’s wings abruptly vanish, and he turns to him. “I’m sorry, dearest,” he says, with a small smile. “I’m afraid I almost fell asleep.”

Crowley smiles hesitantly back and leans in for a kiss.

Aziraphale pulls back after a long moment and looks at him speculatively.

“What?” Crowley snaps, squirming under the gaze. He hates it when Aziraphale looks at him like that, like he’s something precious, something _worthy._

“Perhaps someday I might return the favour,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley stiffens, every fibre of his being screaming _NO!,_ but then he looks again at Aziraphale, at the hope in his eyes, and can’t bear to be the reason it vanishes.

He swallows, rubs his hands awkwardly on his thighs. Feels his answer stick in his throat. Finally manages to force out the single word.

“Maybe.”


End file.
